“Never mind, friend, we may yet, with God’s help, happily return to old Russia,” he said with a kindly smile.
They had now passed out of the golden stream of moonlight and were returning to the dark shore. Here at the foot of a hill stood an abandoned villa, built during the Renaissance period, on the ruins of an ancient Venus temple.
Along both sides of the half-ruined steps, which led down to the sea, gigantic cypresses were ranged like torch-bearers at a funeral. Their entwined tips, continually caught by the wind from the sea, remained bent like heads drooping in sorrow. White statues of gods gleamed spectre-like in the dark shade. And the fountain jet seemed also a pale spectre. In the laurel thickets were shining glow-worms, like funeral tapers. The heavy scent of the magnolias recalled the smell of balsam used for anointing dead bodies. A peacock in the villa, roused by the voices and splashing of oars, strutted out on the steps, opening his tail, and shimmered in the moonlight with dim iridescence, a fan set with gems. Plaintive cries of the peahens sounded like piercing wails of mourners. The waters of the fountain, trickling from an overhanging rock along the thin, hair-like grass, fell into the sea, drop after drop like silent tears, as though a nymph was weeping in the cave, bewailing her sisters. All this sad villa brought to mind some dark Elysium, the subterranean grove of shadows, the burial ground of dead gods; of gods who had died, who had risen again, and again had died.
“Could you believe it, gracious mistress, it is well nigh three years since I had a vapour bath!” continued Æsop.
“Ah! could I but have a few fresh birch twigs and then some cherry honey after the bath,” sighed Afrossinia.
“Tears almost rise to my eyes when drinking the sour stuff of this place, and remember our vodka,” moaned Æsop.
“And some pressed caviar!” echoed Afrossinia.
“And salt sturgeon!”
“And smelt from the White Lake!”